


Road To Perdition

by perkynurples



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Reaper76 Week
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 00:20:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9353630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perkynurples/pseuds/perkynurples
Summary: There's the people they were, and the people they are now. Somehow, Jack and Gabriel, the soldier and the reaper, have survived each other's deaths to continue living in a world that is no longer theirs to reign, and explanations are long overdue. Somewhat loosely inspired by the wonderful prompts for Reaper76 Week.





	1. How We Were (History/Decay)

**Author's Note:**

> So yes, here we are! I'm aiming for something short-ish and not particularly deep, and I DID start writing this literally on the first day of the R76 week, but so far I think I'm having fun with it :) The headcanons I have with my friend include Jack suffering from social anxiety, and Gabriel helping him through it, so there will be a lot of that in the "flashback" parts of the fic. Hope you guys will enjoy it, and you can always come find me at [my Tumblr](zzzaryanova.tumblr.com) to come chat with me more <3

Gabriel is looking at thirty from up close, while Jack still has a couple of years to go, when their lives take a turn for the exciting. Or, what some people might call exciting, promising even - and others might scowl suspiciously at, while trying to keep both feet on the ground. The two of them have many other differences beyond this one, differences of opinion and differences of belief, but in one aspect, they are, infallibly and thus usefully, always the same.

They believe in doing good.

Nobody will call the Soldier Enhancement Program a disaster, not out loud at least, but even if every single other participant ended up a muttering wreck capable of eating only through a straw, these two would have remained proof that it was all worth it. Perhaps not worth it to themselves, not the pain of new chemicals rewriting their genomes, not the ache in their bones or the weight on their shoulders, but someone, somewhere, is very satisfied, sending them out into the world only to land an opportunity so grandiose right from the start that it seems more like a dream still.

_ Best of the best,  _ they remind Jack and Gabriel,  _ you’ve deserved this. Make us proud. Make your country proud. _

_ Save it, _ they always add, almost too quietly.

 

And they do, because it’s what they’re good at. It’s what they’ve been trained to do. The omnic crisis leaves each with a handful more scars, a bit more resentment in their glare, but no war is strong enough to drive a wedge between them personally. There are news reports, and there are pictures of them on said news, and blurry videos, and speculations, and then, of course, there are promotions.

“You  _ can _ do this. Can’t see why you couldn’t. Breathe. Breathe.”

Their world is currently shrunken to the one lonely room they’ve managed to find, Gabriel’s hand gently on the small of Jack’s back, the warmth of it grounding, slowly settling his breathing, slowly drawing the tension out of his shoulders.

“Why did they have to make it a spectacle like this?” Jack complains, voice feeble, weaker than he’d let anyone out of this room ever witness, his erratic breathing making it shake still.

“Everything’s going to be a spectacle from now on, honey,” Gabriel offers a wry smile, then, because it’s his one duty in a situation like this, “breathe. Easy. Want me to count for you?”

“I’m good,” Jack waves his hand, unconvincing, “thanks.”

“You sure?”

“No. I hate this.”

“I know you do,” Gabriel laughs, “but you know as well as I do, this is a good thing.”

“Yeah. Fuck. Just wish there weren’t so many cameras.”

“Don’t we all. Come on, sit down.”

Gabriel guides him to the nearest bench, the beautiful arched window directly behind them offering a breathtaking view of the gardens outside the compound - the UN have always known how to splurge on good looks, and Jack and Gabriel currently care for none of it.

“I never asked for this,” Jack says quietly, their shoulders bumping, hands entwined on Gabriel’s knee - a small moment of comfort, a brief carelessness with their intimacy.

“But you deserve it,” Gabriel tells him softly, only to meet with a scoff that might be perceived as a bit more sarcastic, if it weren’t so desperate.

“No,  _ you _ deserve it. And  _ you _ should be the one to do it. I’m going to talk to Adawe about this, she backed me into a corner, I couldn’t-”

“But you will.  _ You will _ . Look at me, Jack.”

And Jack does, and finally remembers how to breathe evenly - Gabriel’s smile is so soft, too soft for someone who just got everything stolen away from him, and Jack wars with himself now, to see it as the encouragement it is, rather than the last vestige of kindness he doesn’t think he deserves.

“You’re what they want,” Gabriel insists, his thumb drawing small, soothing circles on the skin of Jack’s wrist, “you’re the face. The poster boy. You look  _ way _ better in a suit than me. My point is-” his voice rings with laughter as Jack tries in vain to protest, “that you are exactly what they need to keep themselves afloat in the fallout. They’ve seen the way you talk to a crowd. They need a people-pleaser. I know you hate doing that, and I know you hate the spotlight, but it’s where you have to be right now. Can you imagine  _ me _ trying to please people, any people?”

_ They don’t know you like I know you, _ Jack wants to remind him.  _ If anything, out of the two of us,  _ you’re _ the diplomat, you’re the one always capable of talking his way out of a bad situation, you’re the one who would be amazing at this job, you’re the one who should have been up there saying yes to the position. _

_ You and I both know that, and how long will we last before we admit that? _

“Besides,” Gabriel’s smile has all the confidence Jack can’t currently muster, “I kinda like what they have in store for me.”

“Black ops?” Jack chuckles faintly.

“If that’s what you wanna call it. Who’s to say I won’t just use my shiny new organization to further the interests of our illustrious new leader, Strike Commander Morrison?”

“Please don’t call me that on live TV,” Jack groans, letting his head fall, shoulders slump. “God, this is such bullshit.”

“Yeah, I know. Hey. C’mere.”

Leaning into the warmth of him is a comfort Jack isn’t entirely sure he can afford right now, but he does it anyway, one arm snaking somewhat clumsily around Gabriel’s torso, burying his face in his chest. A bit childish, a bit weak. Prime Strike Commander material, for sure.

“I have no doubt that you’ll be outstanding at this,” Gabriel murmurs into his hair, alongside a quick kiss.

“Thanks,” Jack sighs heavily, “I have a lot of it, but... thanks.”

Gabriel’s quiet laughter sends shivers up his spine, about the first pleasant sensation of this day, and Jack wishes, with no small amount of passion, that they were allowed to stay like this for good. Give them a pension, send them off to live on a farm somewhere, they’ve served long enough. 

“I’ll be there with you, every step of the way,” Gabriel offers, almost too quietly, and Jack’s face contorts in a brief ghost of pain, for no one to see.

“Promise?”

There is silence, and there is the distant  _ thud-thud-thud _ of Gabriel’s heartbeat, and then there is one more kiss, and they will have to go play at competence again now, he knows.

“Yeah, I promise.”

 

-

 

He stumbles into the information more or less by accident - wishes he didn’t. He watches the pattern unfold before him, recognizes it - wishes he didn’t.

It isn't the frequency of the accidents, or the haphazard timing of all of them - nothing out of the ordinary about a couple of labs raided, a couple of corporations relieved of their most sensitive data, after all. Nothing he himself hasn’t been dabbling in these past couple of years.

No, it's in the signs, obvious only to him, only because he's spent his entire life familiarizing himself with them. It's the cruel efficiency, and the lack of evidence, and the common denominator for all the perpetrators, which is that there are none to be found.

He reads about it, and bookmarks dates and locations, and, never staying in one place too long, always on the move, always running  _ toward _ rather than  _ from _ something, the soldier almost gives in to hoping.

  
  


He traces it, like the words to a song he only remembers the fleeting melody of - follows the trail all the way from the freezing north, to the scorching heat of the desert, until his leads begin running dry. Until his means of obtaining information cease to be enough. Until he either has to go and  _ really _ make sure, or turn away and pretend he can’t see the one option staring him in the face.

What was once an Ecopoint right out of Nevada, buried deep in the jagged cavity of a sun-bleached rock, has since served as shelter to all manner of people and organizations, from the military to the cartels, from legal and fancy to dirty and dangerous - but right now, it lies abandoned. At least at first sight.

He waltzes in past the few remaining mines and antediluvian security systems without breaking a sweat, but it isn’t the remnants of the original AI that give him the most trouble. No, it’s the fact that he recognizes it, all of it - even though he couldn’t have spent more than a couple of days in this particular facility, it’s all... It’s there. The sharp angles of the corridors, the familiar shortcuts stenciled on the bland blue walls, numbers and letters in combinations that spell  _ home. _

He could navigate this place blindfolded, its layout burned into some long-unused corner of his brain, reserved for memories that have no use in the present except for unsettling him.

Tapping his visor gives him a tech feed of his surroundings, a thousand wires spreading out in front of him like a web, through the walls and the floors and the ceilings, strings of beaming blue all rushing in the same direction, showing him the way - he can’t quite believe the thousand and one lowlife that came here through the years haven’t stripped this place to its skeleton, but hey, they did once make them to last.  _ These places will outlive us all. _ Built brick by brick to withstand anything from a flood to a bombing, from a nuclear fallout to just the good old-fashioned but relentless passage of time.

His rifle trained at every dark corner, he makes his way to the heart of the relatively small compound, and knows he isn’t the first one here - the first one who  _ knows _ how this place is supposed to work, anyway.

There are scribbles on the blackboards in the labs he passes, scribbles on the  _ walls _ , and though they could very well be very  _ old _ scribbles, something tells him otherwise. There is a... he is hesitant to call it  _ a presence, _ but something lingers in the air. Every door he kicks open, he expects to see a figure hunched over a desk, shadows coalescing into a shape that’s only familiar because he wills it to be.

He finds his proof eventually - the central control room is a graveyard of computer parts, old wires and components strewn about like trash, but there it is, a clean spot, like someone cleared out a workplace for themselves by one of the screens. It’s covered with a thin layer of dust now, but such a stark contrast to the disarray around - somebody has been here, relatively recently.

He lets his rifle fall to his side, sifting instead through the papers on the desk - financial records, old reports from crime scenes he doesn’t recognize, even a number of leaflets. LumeriCo, he recognizes, Vishkar, too. Colorful, so out of place.

“What the hell are you looking for?”

His voice, though a tired mumble, carries. He listens breathlessly for a response that never comes.

The photograph is tucked into a pile of seemingly unimportant weather data and whatnot, a crumbled piece of paper, frail, like the one found in a newspaper - that’s probably where it was torn from, jagged edges, some of the faces unrecognizable. Well, for someone who wasn’t a part of the picture in the first place.

There’s a lot of them, and he remembers it only very vaguely. An opening of this or that outreach center, but because it was in an influential area, they wanted an influential presence. He remembers the uncomfortable suit, and the calming press of a hand on the small of his back, and  _ don’t worry, I’ll be standing right next to you, won’t I, just look straight ahead and think of dinner later. _ It was their daily bread back then, pose after ridiculous pose, smile for the cameras, say a word or a dozen,  _ we’re learning this as we go. _

His thumb traces the angry lines scribbled onto the picture - there are a dozen faces, and about a half are crossed out so violently the pen tore through the paper in several spots. His own is clear, and so is Gabriel’s, and a handful others. 

_ A Step In The Right Direction, _ reads the title of the article - crossed out, replaced with  _ DID THEY ALREADY KNOW _ , and arrows pointing to those who suffered the fate of a jagged, angry red cross over their face.

There are pin holes in the corners of the picture, he notices, and when he closes his eyes, he can see it clear as day - the wall plastered with dozens of them, overlapping in a mayhem of connections, red string forming connections only their creator could understand.

 

_ What the hell is this? _ , Jack had asked him, and Gabriel had cast him a glare, like he was nothing more than just one addition to the board in front of him.

_ It’s our way out of this bullshit, _ he’d told Jack,  _ provided you’re willing to listen to me for once. _

He wasn’t anywhere in the vicinity of  _ ready _ then, but just maybe, he thinks, he might finally be able to start listening now.


	2. In His Shoes (Body/Role Swap)

The public appearances are huge, and they are plentiful -  _ this is the dawn of a new era of peace, _ they always say, and as such, Gabriel supposes, it must be celebrated with a lot of champagne and tuxes. Must be.

They’ve made it so that he follows Jack everywhere - technically Ana is his second in command, Gabriel has his own, much less publicly pleasing, branch to run, but there is simply no way he’s letting Jack weather all of this alone, nosy questions be damned.

“Sure lookin’ good up there.”

That’s McCree, appearing by Gabriel’s side out of nowhere, just the way he likes to do, making him realize only now that he’s been glaring perhaps a bit too hard all this time at the gathering of people a little ways ahead, where Jack stand surrounded, all eyes on him, as he answers a barrage of reporter questions.

“You’re not half bad yourself,” Gabriel quips, “you actually remembered to tie your tie. I’m impressed.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” the kid tugs at his neat collar, “I sure hope they keep the cameras on Morrison-”

“Hey.”

“ _ Commander _ Morrison, instead of me.”

“You sure, with that winning smile?” Gabriel jabs at him, and the youngster scowls, scouring the crowd, for one of those waiters with a tray full of alcohol no doubt.

“Yeah, I’m sure. Wouldn’t wanna be in his shoes.”

“That so?” Gabriel cocks an eyebrow.

“Yeah, are you kidding? Playing nice for the cameras 24/7? Smiling like you’re one of those cereal box guys? Gotta hurt your jaw.”

Gabriel hides the burst of laughter behind a cough, but he still regards the boy with more care now - this is his first proper big outing since he picked him out of a ditch, and he seems to be handling it well enough. And besides, he never ceases to amaze Gabriel, be it the unexpected depth of his insights, or the unexpected depth of his stomach when it comes to free food.

“It’s not an easy job,” he agrees, “you often gotta smile at people you’d rather sock in the jaw.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m sticking with you,” McCree beams at him, “socking people in the jaw is kinda in the job description.”

“Aren’t you a charmer,” Gabriel sighs, “alright, scoot. Check in with me later, don’t get too drunk. Don’t piss on anything.”

“Your words, boss,” McCree clutches his tuxedo-clad chest, “they hurt.”

“I said scoot!”

“Alright, alright, geez.”

Gabriel watches him saunter away, navigating the crowd like he was born to it, flashing a grin here and there -  _ dangerous charms, an even more dangerous lack of care.  _ He’ll be lucky if he’s not picking the kid out of a gutter before the night ends. But for now, he has a different kind of rescuing to do.

The thing about Jack is, he makes for a perfect picture. Looks fantastic in a suit, body and face both like chiseled marble, smile bright enough to blind those who happen to be standing too close - but all of that is only what the people who don’t actually know him.

And Gabriel knows him best of all, and thus can see beyond all that, and recognize the signs when they appear - his perfect broad shoulders getting a bit too tense, his perfect polished smile cracking into a forced one at the edges, his perfect manners running on autopilot. He’s had just about enough.

“Excuse me, Commander,” he sidles up to him, not a care in the world for the people around them, “there is an urgent matter that requires your immediate attention.”

Jack looks at him, all business for a second before recognizing the lifeline, and grabbing at it with a gratitude that, yet again, nobody but Gabriel can see. Ignoring the string of  _ oh my’s _ and  _ how exciting’s _ , Gabriel steers him away, gently but firmly, taking care to only press his hand to the small of his back when the crowd is too thick for anyone to notice.

“Breathe,” he mutters, and can almost feel Jack melting to the touch.

The balcony he leads him to, he’s scouted out before, and it is, indeed, empty, save of course for the entire city below them, and the occasional cry of the seagulls. The fresh seaside air is a wonderful remedy, Gabriel knows, and he watches Jack lean heavily on the railing and inhale it thirstily.

“Talk?” he asks simply, and Jack shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Alright then. Deep breaths. Take your time.”

And that’s it - Gabriel fishes out his cigarette box, lounging as well, giving Jack enough space to either move further away or closer in, and the murmur of voices from inside and the distant cacophony of the metropolis meld into one somewhat nice whole.

Jack’s shoulders rise and fall, prominent at first, only to calm down later, as he catches his breath, rediscovers his equilibrium, and Gabriel doesn’t count the time - never has. He’s simply  _ there, _ a person which Jack can be silent with, can be unguarded with, doesn’t have to pretend with, and he knows it’s enough, and Jack knows it’s enough.

_ Wouldn’t wanna be in his shoes. _ McCree has no idea,  _ nobody _ has any idea, how much of a toll this job takes on a person. Not the fighting part, not the grind of everyday paperwork interspersed with everyday missions - Jack actually likes all that, because it keeps him focused, keeps him steady - but the part where you have to become something bigger than yourself. An icon, the embodiment of an idea, the face on the news - and you have to be that, this larger-than-life  _ idol, _ on top of also trying to retain a bit of being yourself.

Sometimes, Gabriel wishes they did go forth and have the UN make him Strike Commander instead, if only to save Jack this hell. But those thoughts, he doesn’t voice, ever. Out loud, he believes in Jack, supports Jack, never questions that he can do this, because he  _ can _ do it, and do it well... And it’s what both of them need.

“Hey,” Jack mumbles, suddenly closer now than Gabe remembers standing.

“Hey there. You good now?”

“Yeah. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Gabriel smiles, and then, to test the waters, he adds: “Poster boy.”

Jack groans, but a smile tugs at his lips as he hangs his head, away from the city below, away from the people inside, away from anyone but Gabriel to see. This is a part of him no one else gets, and Gabriel adores it.

“Ready to go back in?”

“Well. If you wanna.”

And also, Gabriel knows well enough to recognize  _ that _ change in his tone.

“Well, it is a nice evening,” he sighs, spreading his arms, inviting him in, one sideways glance making sure nobody is going to walk in on them, for at least a moment - ever the scout.

“It is. Can we maybe rappel down the balcony and go get Chinese downtown?”

“Maybe,” Gabriel smirks, and Jack’s hands are on his chest, and his lips inches away, his smile calm, satisfied - so Gabriel is satisfied as well.

“You look damn good in a tux,” he declares, and the white of Jack’s teeth flashes briefly as he grins and chuckles.

“You knew this about me already,” he mock-scolds him, “rehashed compliments.”

“Take it or leave it.”

He also knew already that the blue of Jack’s eyes changes so many times a day it’s as if they’re never the same color - a bleached periwinkle now, with dashes of gold, the reflections of the glow from inside - but he doesn’t think it will ever cease to astonish him.

“I’ll take it,” Jack smiles, and then there isn’t quite room for words anymore.

_ Poster boy, _ Gabriel thinks - thinks he will never end up reassuring him -  _ let the world have your pretty face, as long as I get to keep all the rest beyond that. _

 

-

 

This particular den, he doesn’t like - too small, packed with too many people, too many inquisitive looks. But right now, it’s safer than one of the big ones - can’t draw attention to himself after that stunt. Lucky to be  _ alive _ after that stunt, although alive is always a bit of an overstatement these days.

He hates to be reduced to just waiting, but his choices are slim as of right now - and relying on a nameless hacker with a feisty streak for punctuality is a risky game.

But she arrives, and right on time, too - he can see far too well the group slowly forming behind him, planning to approach him, only to hesitate and eventually retreat when she sits down next to him. Can’t stay here too long, or someone is going to start asking questions he’d prefer never to answer.

“ _ Buenas noches, _ ” she greets him cheerfully, “you look like shit.”

“Really? Because I usually look so warm and approachable?” he grumbles, squaring his shoulders, turning even further away from the men behind him.

“Yeah, well, you know. You’re kinda...” she flutters her fingers almost daintily, “fuzzy at the edges again.”

His entire head is fuzzy at the edges after that little tete-a-tete with the gorilla, but to her, he only offers a charming snarl.

“I’m feeling peachy, your concern is noted. Did you bring it?”

She tugs her coat aside, to reveal a small breast pocket, taking out the drive only long enough for him to see - even though this gathering place  _ is _ Talon, they aren’t exactly a company known for cultivating healthy relationships full of trust between their hirelings.

“I brought it. I still think you should have taken me with to that place. I could have extracted that database for you like  _ that- _ ” she snaps her fingers, a sharp sound that only serves to make his head pound in his current state, “but no-o, you had to go and get yourself blown up, and in the name of what?”

_ Hope. _

“It was mostly for show, anyway. I have other means of finding out what I need.”

“Yes, you have  _ me. _ Although you only have me as long as I’m not bored. What’s our next evening of entertainment entail?”

Somebody decides to raise the volume on the dusty screen in the corner above the bar, and their attention is inadvertently pointed that way for a bit - although, as soon as he recognizes the figure, he is all in.

“And we’re sure that guy isn’t one of ours?” someone’s thick east-european accent rings from the side, backed by a chorus of  _ nah nah’s  _ and  _ no way’s _ . He tugs his cape lower, to cover more of him.

“Well then, maybe we might wanna look into hiring him anyway, eh?” someone else offers  _ their _ smart idea, and receives scattered laughter for their effort.

“Nah, man, look at him, that guy is a nutjob,” theorist number three offers from somewhere relatively close by, “going after old Overwatch facilities? What’s the use in that? Beating a dead horse, y’know what I mean?”

“Looks more like a biker gang reject. Fancy jacket.”

“Fancy visor. Those things run fucking expensive these days.”

“Don’t worry, we’re all gonna chip in to buy you one, babe, your aiming’s shit.”

He lets the humbug of overlapping voices and laughter wash over him until it is nothing but background buzz, and he watches the brief news report end, with the face, or rather the figure, of the masked vigilante of the hour plastered on the screen still. White hair, broad shoulders, a soldier’s posture. The rifle in his hands, he could recognize anywhere - and if any of the idiots around him cared to learn more about Overwatch than the bedtime stories they’d heard, they’d recognize it, too.

Jack was never seen without it, back in the day.

The alleged biker jacket he’s wearing has a large, stylized number 76 on it, and that, too, might be one of the reasons to finally move ahead, if only for the chance to mock him about it.

“That,” he points at the screen, captures his companion’s attention, “is our next evening entertainment.”

_ You always did look good on a camera, poster boy. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this follows the prompt VERY loosely, but hey, brownie points for McCree using the line, right? Right....? I'm working with the (half canon, half fanon, from what I understand...??) that Gabe is working FOR Talon, not like... their leader or anything. Yes. Like my Gabe that way. ANYWAY yes here we are, onwards to tomorrow's chapter 3! As always, find me at [my Tumblr](zzzaryanova.tumblr.com) to come chat!


	3. At Your Back (Trust/Betrayal)

Giza is a searing gorge this time of year, no improvement whatsoever on his previous dwelling. There’s a crumpled photograph of a group of people full of hope stowed in the breast pocket of his jacket, and a name on his lips he doesn’t dare say out loud. Not yet.

_ Hakim, _ he asks instead, over and over again, until the trail of bodies leads him in a singular direction. It’s almost too easy, like a path of breadcrumbs someone’s left for him - someone might have, and he should be all the more careful for it.

_ The Shrike, The Ghost, _ the murmurs all sound the same in the sweltering streets of the city, and he wonders if they’re one and the same person, if the ghost of Giza is his ghost as well. If there are answers to be found here, or yet more questions. He has his suspicions, but for those to be confirmed, he has to actually  _ get somewhere. _

The lair is easy enough to approach, almost too easy in fact, and once he’s done dealing with the welcoming committee, he actually takes the time to stop and  _ listen _ to the comm chatter. The voices are distorted, heavily augmented, but one stands apart, because of course it does. Jack looks up at the tall, bleached walls, and ponders the pros and cons of turning back, walking away, pretending like he never encountered his past head on, and spending the rest of his life making sure it will never happen again...

Twenty seconds later he’s engaged in a firefight with yet another guard, and yeah, so much for planning things properly.

“Where is he?” he growls at the man below him, and a second later, a shotgun pellet is slicing his innards, and he really should have seen this coming.

“ _ Right here, Jack. _ ”

There is running away from your past, and then there is being forced to butt with it head on, and yet not mustering enough courage to actually look it in the face. Jack knows it’s him, knows it’s always been him, now, but getting to his feet and  _ confirming _ is too much of a pain right now.

_ This is how it should have been. _

More than anything, he dreams of Reyes actually taking the shot properly, for this to be over, but then there is a third participant in the scuffle, and things take a turn for the chaotic. He tastes sand, sees sand, grabs fistfuls of it as he launches himself at his attacker, something strange and cold and soothing coursing alongside the blood in his veins, healing him,  _ get in there, Jack! _ , and if there is a way to stop time in this very moment, neither of them possess it.

He pulls his punches, but even if he didn’t, all he would hit is... smoke. Black and slithering slowly,  _ sentient, _ foul - Jack doesn’t need to mull it over too hard to confirm, it’s all that’s left of him. And it fades away entirely too quickly, before he can confirm anything else, really, and he picks himself up off the ground with a heaviness in his chest that has very little to do with his actual cuts and scrapes.

“For a second there I was worried you really were going to kill me,” he grunts, and she towers over him, proud, unwavering,  _ alive. _

“Maybe I should have, after what you pulled. I had this place staked out for days, before you came and ruined everything. You’d better have a good reason.”

Her hair is completely white underneath her hood, a web of wrinkles veiling her face, but it all remains so very familiar nonetheless. Suddenly exhausted, bone-deep weary, Jack unfastens his visor, tugs it off.

“I was looking for you. I thought you were dead, Ana.”

Her hazel eyes don’t offer a single hint of remorse.

 

They limp out of that place side by side, and she leads him through the streets of Giza quicker than he could ever navigate them himself - this is her home, after all, and he is simply lucky to be allowed to tag along.

She shares her hideout space with a carpet shop, and the last place on the Earth he thought he’d be taking his armor off is surrounded by rolled up rugs, but he never was allowed to say no to her.

She checks his wound over methodically, explaining about the biotic bullet she’d hit him with in the middle of the fight back then, the limitations of its healing, and he attempts not to wince as she digs her fingers into his flesh - attempts to keep it to himself, how comforting this is anyhow.  _ We old soldiers are hard to kill. _

“You’re back here,” he remarks softly as she prepares him a fresh bandage, “how long? Is Fareeha...?”

“Gone long before I got here,” she cuts him off sternly, “you hear about the Recall?”

“Caught wind of it, yeah. What are they thinking?”

There is disapproval in her glare now.

“They’re thinking they have to make a change. Nothing wrong with that.”

“Everything wrong with  _ how _ they’re going about it, I mean come on, it’s still outlawed for them to even be seen together-!”

“Jack.”

For a moment, the only sounds are those from the outside, the commotion of the afternoon crowd, some old radio coughing out an unknown tune.

“Don’t you dare reopen this wound,” she orders him, and her hand lingers for a second over the bandage, a gentle warmth he is entirely unused to anymore.

“Did you get a good look at his face?”

The question comes out unexpectedly, for both him and her, and he almost apologizes it as she freezes, before hanging her head, patting his arm.

“Put your shirt back on already, old man,” she turns her back to him.

“Ana.”

“...Wish I didn’t,” she confesses quietly.

“Was he...”

“Oh, it  _ was _ him, no doubt about it. Just... not all there.”

“What do you mean?”

She measures him carefully now, inquisitively to say the least, and he has never been excellent at weathering her glares.

“Do you know what happened to him?” she inclines her head, “how he could have... How he survived in the first place?”

“Not a clue,” he admits.

“Figures. I have  _ some _ clue.”

“...And?”

It is only now that he notices that her knuckles are badly scraped, bleeding, and she is cleaning them without flinching, almost as an afterthought.

“And I’m thinking we were all better off when we were dead.”

 

-

 

There is a balance to their fighting that suffers greatly with their new arrangement - they spend more time apart than together in the battlefield now, different duties, different goals, different fights. Technically speaking, they are both perfectly capable of being a one-man army, and everyone views them as such, anyway, but it’s not what stopped the omnic crisis, not what turned the tide of so many hopeless battles.

There’s Jack’s quick thinking on his feet, and Gabriel’s ability to curb and shape it into actual useful strategies. There’s Gabriel’s ability to always find an escape route, and Jack reminding him in time to actually use it. There’s the things no one but the people who have worked with them for years can see, the way they always cover each other’s blind spot, always know where the other one is, always carry a small packet of spare ammo that doesn’t fit their own weapon, but rather that of their partner. They are impressive, top-tier, unstoppable, when alone, but together, they are a force of nature.

Of course, all of that takes a backseat now, but for one night every week or two, one of the smaller training ranges is always commandeered on the authority of Strike Commander Morrison, as Jack and Gabe relearn to occupy the same space.

“Watch your back, boyscout,” Gabriel teases, sweat breaking on both their brows at this point, as they circle each other with fists raised, fighting stances almost polar opposites, Jack’s controlled and lean, muscles prepared to spring into action, compared to Gabriel’s feet firmly on the ground, posture broad.

“Spend less time lecturing, more time dealing damage,” Jack shoots back, propelling his fist forward in the middle of that sentence for added momentum, only to meet Gabriel expecting as much, evading, grabbing Jack’s forearm, sending him overbalancing forward with a simple, yet effective pull.

Always prepared to make the best out of a bad situation, Jack uses that minor loss to somersault forward, catching Gabriel unprepared, stealing solid ground from under his feet with one precisely aimed kick - the current push and pull game reaches its conclusion with Jack straddling Gabriel, his weight effectively immobilizing him, not that Gabriel is in any way complaining about his current predicament.

He releases all tension from his muscles with a single, satisfied huff, a lazy smile, the heat of him permeating into every inch of Jack’s body... Before he knows it, his back is the one hitting the ground, all air knocked out of his lungs, Gabriel’s grin turning from languorous to wolfish, gaining the upper hand in about a second.

“Always gotta have the last word, huh?” Jack smirks.

“You just make it so easy!” Gabriel cackles.

“I do not!”

“I know your every move before you make it, Jackie,” Gabriel reminds him fondly, “always have, always will.”

“That works both ways, you know.”

He attempts a kick, but his heart isn’t in it, and Gabriel sees it coming from a mile off, pinning him down even more insistently.

“Careful now, Commander,” he grins, “someone might misconstrue all this as you losing your edge.”

“And here I’ve finally started getting people to believe you’re a nice person.”

“Making me look soft, are you?”

“Not exacerbating anything that wasn’t already there.”

Nearly every inch of their bodies slotted together now, they rock gently as Gabriel leans in, a kiss to Jack’s neck, the curve of his jaw, finally, his lips - it’s where they’ve been heading ever since they walked in here, anyway, and they both know it far too well.

“What has it been, two weeks?” Gabriel hums, their lips barely parting, and Jack’s back arches closer to meet him, a faint moan forming itself deep in his throat.

“Too long,” he exhales, and Gabriel’s hands are all over his body, finding their way too easily underneath his sweat-drenched t-shirt, the hem of his slacks.

“You had the cameras switched off, right?”

“No, I prefer half the base spying on us,” Jack retorts breathlessly, “I do need a shower, though, Gabe, I...”

His voice hitches before he can finish that thought, Gabriel’s thigh in between his legs, his mouth bothering the soft skin of his collarbone.

“Later,” he mumbles, his own voice huskier now with the ill-concealed longing, “later, Jackie.”

“Hard to argue with that logic,” Jack agrees, and revels in the genuine surprise in Gabriel’s gasp when he lets his hands wander as well, finding the firm but soft arch of hiss ass.

“Someone isn’t protesting quite as much as I expected them to,” he manages somewhat calmly, before Jack is squeezing, pushing him closer.

“Know your every move,” he presses each word to Gabriel’s skin with a kiss, “always have, always will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ana's in the picture! I promise the schmoopiness of the flashbacks will decrease at some point... I think.....


	4. On Holiday (Vacation/Time Off)

There is a cozy little countryside home right outside of Malaga, its stone walls offering a blissful reprieve from the scorching sun outside, the splash of the sea a pleasant murmur, interrupted only by the occasional cry of a seagull. Neither of them feel like visiting family this time around - they seek solitude, if brief, and anonymity, however fleeting.

The old radio in the kitchen won’t play anything but some local oldies station, no matter how much they try tuning it, and so they dance to Stevie Wonder while waiting for the fajitas to finish baking, bare feet on terracotta tiles.

They walk through the bustling village hand in hand, linen shirts and trousers rolled above their ankles, and they’re just another couple taking the occasional selfie with particularly strange-looking seafood, and kissing underneath the blooming wisterias spilling down every other wall.

They walk into every church they can find, in reverent silence, simply there to admire the decorations, the tall windows, the quiet and the cold air - perfectly polite tourists. They buy ice-cream, and listen to a band of buskers playing a peppy tune in one of the squares, and they reach for the coins in their pockets to chip in, instead of the guns tucked behind their belts on the small of their backs.

Jack is the first one to break the no work talk rule, only for Gabriel to shut him up with a spoonful of the cream he’s making, and a kiss afterward. Their agreement is unspoken - they don’t have a lot of time to spend like this, so they intend to make the most of it.

“I wanna move here,” Gabriel announces, the two of them lounging in wooden recliners behind the building, evening air cooling their cheeks, a bottle of wine at hand, and Jack looks up from his tablet, peers at him over the rim of the reading glasses almost nobody else is allowed to see.

“Right here, here?”

“Nah, like... the concept of here. A nice house, away from everything, just four stone walls and a garden. Maybe some bees. Or a goat.”

“A goat,” Jack repeats incredulously.

Gabriel smiles languidly, stretching his arms over his head, shirt riding up, exposing the soft of his stomach.

“Yeah. You know. When we’re a hundred, and I can’t hold a gun anymore, and not even your reading glasses are enough for you to...”

“Read?” Jack chuckles.

“Yep.”

“Nice retirement plan.”

“Right?”

“Glad it includes me also.”

Gabriel’s eyes are dark and warm, and Jack doesn’t think he’s ever seen him this at ease.

“Well, unless you wanna go farm corn at your parents’ house in Indiana or something.”

“Yeah, that’s  _ my _ idea of my peaceful twilight years,” Jack scoffs, “farming corn.”

“I’ll plant you a corn field here, to put your mind at ease.”

“Aren’t you the most considerate man.”

The cicadas become increasingly relentless with their discordant song as night settles around them - the stars here are a breathtaking image, like someone had spilled a billion brilliant beads across the dark velvet of the sky, something you never see in the big cities. Eventually, one recliner stands abandoned, while the other is forced to weather the conjoined weight of the two of them, their ankles knocking together, elbows in ribs, until they finally settle for a lasting position - it’s Gabriel this time, seeking closeness, letting Jack’s arms envelop him and hold him close, not too far from purring like a contented tomcat as Jack’s nails scratch gently through his beard.

“Sorry about the work talk earlier,” Jack murmurs into his hair, his other hand sliding underneath the soft fabric of Gabriel’s shirt, resting flat on his stomach.

“Nah, hey. We’ll be back in two days anyway, lots of catching up ahead of us. It would be stupid to pretend it isn’t waiting there.”

“You’re leaving for... how long?”

“I don’t know,” Gabriel confesses, “the initial estimate says two to three weeks, probably more as we get settled in.”

Jack stares into the pitch black of the fields stretching ahead of their little holiday retreat, chin resting atop Gabriel’s head - thoughts he desperately wants to chase away, but knows will follow him no matter how far they retreat from their actual workplace.

“I’ll call you,” Gabriel adds, promises.

“You don’t have to. You  _ shouldn’t _ ,” Jack reminds him.

“Eh, what’s a little breaking of regulations between...”

“Yeah?” Jack smirks.

“You know,” Gabe squirms a bit, the wood of the recliner creaking, “between... two people who... plan on living until a hundred and fifty together?”

“You’re assuming I’ll tolerate you that long.”

Eyes darker than the night gleam up at him as Gabriel adjusts his position to look into his face.

“Yeah, I’m assuming as much,” he says simply, and Jack doesn’t have a quick response at the ready, except for the sudden leap of his heart - that, too, is best conveyed by less words and more actions, anyway.

Gabriel gasps as Jack leans in for a kiss, and as he attempts to wrap his arms around him, the recliner finally decides it has done enough for them, and sends them both landing on the tiles of the veranda, shaking with laughter.

“Or, you know, we might only live until forty, if we go on like this.”

“That’s a chance I’m willing to take, I think.”

 

-

 

“You have got to be kidding me.”

“What?”

He leans over her shoulder, jabs one finger into the holographic screen, the image distorting briefly, before flickering back into place.

“Hey, careful with that!” Sombra complains, and he proceeds to ignore her, concentrating instead on the camera feed she’s managed to procure.

“ _ That _ is one of Torbjorn’s turrets. What, do they think they’re going to defend the entire base with just that? My god.”

“The... engineer?” she guesses, “the one with a dozen children and a third wife?”

“That’s the one,” he sighs, “let me see the loading bay again.”

Of course they’d pick Gibraltar - of course. Nothing like nostalgia to drive a reunion doomed to failed from the very start. It’s almost too painful to watch, honestly.

“That AI of theirs,” Sombra speculates, “the firewalls she’s put up, that’s really something. I’ve never seen anything like it. Can I poke around a little bit?”

“No,” he says firmly, “unless you value your precious anonymity.”

“Oh, come on, she might be smart, but it’s still just a computer!”

“Not Athena. Be on your guard. Don’t let them know we’re visiting just yet.”

“Ay, alright,  _ as you wish. _ Not even the occasional glitch in the lights, make them think the place is haunted? Eh?”

“Sombra,” he groans.

“ _ Bueno, bueno. _ ....What the hell is that?”

“What? Where?”

“ _ That, _ ” one gloved finger makes the hologram ripple, “is a man in a cowboy hat.”

He laughs dryly, leaning closer yet to see better, the man currently lounging outside the main building, apparently smoking. He smiles.

“Indeed it is. Kind of his thing.”

“Who  _ is that? _ ” she sounds dangerously intrigued.

“Good luck finding out.”

“Aww, come on, Gabe.”

“Don’t call me that. Who’s that in the driveway? There, in the rift between the rocks?”

“Ooh, visitors!” she grins, all excited, and somehow manages to make the camera zoom in on that particular patch of scorched ground, where two figures are approaching the outer wall of the Watchpoint - on foot, no less, and he’d recognize them even if he didn’t want to.

“What, they let people just  _ come up  _ to the front door? Secure.”

But he pays her no attention now - focuses instead on the two, nothing but blurry spectres on the screen. They stop midway, engaged in some sort of argument, it seems, and then she breaks off, marching resolutely forth, while he lingers in place, hesitating, casting glances behind him, as if to make sure they weren’t followed.

_ Slinking back home like a stray dog. _ Gabriel has replayed every second of their brief encounter in Giza in his head a dozen times since it happened, but the truth of the matter is, he never stayed long enough to look Jack in the face - Ana, he did see, because she had nothing to run away from, but him...

It’s difficult to say, still, which one of them is running from something, and which one is going forth with a goal in mind.

“They’re actually going to just knock on the front door,” Sombra marvels, and the next moments give them a life feed of the reunion of a lifetime - there are faces he doesn’t recognize, and some he only wishes he didn’t, and if he had any breath left to hold, he’d be straining right now, watching them all react to the arrival, Sombra’s live feed following them as they all meet in the loading bay, the tense silence almost radiating off the screen.

Angela is the first to go to them, followed by McCree, and the second Ana extends her arms to them to greet them, he looks away.

“Alright, I’ve seen enough,” he says sternly, “pack your bags, be ready ASAP.”

“Oh, are we going to knock on the front door, too?” she gasps, mock-excitement, and he levels her with a glare.

“Not just yet, no. I don’t think the mood would be as welcoming in our case.”

“Well, you never know. Water under the bridge, that kind of thing.”

“Right. You know where we’re going next.”

“Yeah, alright,” she sighs, “what’s the weather like in Russia this time of the year? Do the temperatures  _ ever _ actually climb above zero? Alright, alright, I’m going.”

_ Just knock on the front door, _ he amuses himself with the thought,  _ that’ll be the day. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit shorter this time. Everything is too fluffy I feel :D find me at zzzaryanova at tumblr! <3


	5. Chapter 5

The call comes interrupting yet another mindless re-read of this or that report, and Jack is grateful for it, almost incapable of recognizing singular words at this point.

"How are you still up?" is Gabriel's greeting, and Jack peers at the digital clock on his desk suspiciously. Oh.

"Just... finishing up. You?"

The time difference between them is only three hours right now, but the distance, much greater.

"Yeah, it's, uh," Gabriel rubs the back of his neck, glancing behind him - Jack can only make out vague shadows, some feeble light source painting dark circles underneath Gabriel's eyes, or perhaps just pronouncing what's already there.

"You don't have to say," Jack sighs, "maybe sleep would be good."

"Yeah, yeah, in a minute. How are you?"

The image flickers and sputters occasionally, and Gabriel pulls off his hoodie, scratching his head, rubbing his face, clearly exhausted - Jack feels a hot wave of inexplicable displeasure, anger almost,  _ why the hell would he forsake sleep for this, _ but then he realizes,  _ because of course you would _ .

"So far so good. Base is quieter without you. ...Mostly without McCree."

Gabriel's laughter sounds like the tearing of old paper.

"Yeah, god, lucky you. Journalists not giving you any trouble?"

"Got another press conference the day after tomorrow," Jack admits reluctantly.

"Jesus. Nothing's ever enough to satisfy those vultures. What, Were we only ninety-eight percent green again last month?"

"Yeah, I wish," Jack huffs a laugh, slumping in his chair also.

"What, what is it?"

"Nothing. You're tired. It can wait."

"Jack."

For the past three weeks or so, he's been walking a very thin line between frustration and desperation, and right now, he feels like he might just have reached his tipping point.  _ I wanted to protect you from this, in a way _ , he wants to say, but knows Gabriel would only laugh at him. Knows Gabriel will be pissed no matter what he says, and in the end, Jack's reasons are hardly altruistic, no matter how much he tries to convince himself otherwise - the truth is, he's just been postponing this out of some irrational fright.

"I was going to tell you after you came back."

"Yeah, but you're telling me now. What's going on?"

It isn't pretty, and Jack can see the same journey he's been going through in the past couple of weeks, unfold on Gabriel's face as well, the disbelief, the bitter amusement, the indignation, the fury. There is absolutely no reason for the press to start paying this much attention to Blackwatch all of a sudden - in a way, the UN is digging their own graves, allowing this, having relied on the secrecy and, more importantly, the discretion surrounding Gabriel's branch of the organization, and Jack has spent more time trying to find out if anyone is currently executing some sort of personal vendetta against them, than he's spent actually giving merit to any of the accusations.

"This is such bullshit," Gabriel speaks quietly, mostly because he probably has to, but his voice rings with all the telltale signs of ill-concealed anger. "They couldn't make this any more fucking clear, pulling this shit without me present."

"I tried stalling, I swear," Jack scowls, "but there's only so much I could do, Adawe ordered it, and I couldn't-"

"Fuck. I mean, it's one thing, patting your back and telling you, o _ h yeah, we're all just happy to be looking the other way _ , you know? But this? I have half a mind to prove them right, just for the hell of it.  _ Human trafficking? _ Is that what they were able to come up?"

"Look, I... Gabe. Listen," Jack says urgently, wishing more than ever that there were together, in the same room, capable of actually supporting each other. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier, but I- I'm planning on denouncing this crap anyway. This organization is as much yours as it is mine, and I aim to remind them of that. You have my full trust, you know that.  _ You know that. _ "

The shoddy connection saps their shared look of some intensity, some meaning, but Jack conveys it as best he can, anyway.  _ I trust you. No one else. You. _

"I'm wrapping up here as fast as I can," Gabriel states at last, jaw set tight, already back in full-on effective work mode. "I'll be back soon, and we're going to find out what the fuck is going on here. Deal?"

"Look after yourself," Jack sighs, "please."

"I'll be back in a couple of days," Gabriel reaffirms, "then we're putting an end to this."

However, somehow, though neither of them will voice it, they both have the sneaking suspicion that it might only be the very beginning.

-

Perhaps the oddest thing about being back in the Watchpoint, any Watchpoint for that matter, is the lack of any sort of schedule. He spends a good part of the day convincing various people that he doesn't wish to be called Commander, or even really his name, for that matter, especially coming from people he's never met before, and then when that is concluded, there is... surprisingly few things to do, really.

After their initial, partly bloody, partly cathartic, argument, Winston offers him clearance codes for pretty much everything; he utilizes them mostly to cover his own tracks, make sure nobody has snooped him out here just yet. He thinks, knows, they're all hoping he will reassume his old role, but he has no desire whatsoever to do so, no matter how lost they appear, no matter how much longing for  _ the old times _ he can smell lingering in the air, a heaviness on their shoulders.

As far as he's concerned, the old times are better off left in the past, and their current times not worth embellishing into something they're not.

And so, for a lack of anything better to do, Jack wanders. Ana seems to have some fleeting idea of why she dragged the both of them here, seems satisfied enough to just  _ be _ here, but Jack is used to never lingering in one place too long, to moving fast and disappearing thoroughly, and his skin is beginning to itch. Recognizing every corner around him doesn't help in the slightest.

He hears it when scouting aimlessly around the outdoor loading bay, the glittering surface of the sea visible from here, the walls and metal stairs, cisterns and old forgotten crates, all overgrown with weeds. It's a sound so out of place that he can't help but follow it, beyond what used to be some sort of storage mechanism, rusting metal parts, where a cliff of tall grass and jagged rocks overlooks the sea.

He finds himself almost expecting a different person sitting there leaning on a round stone, gazing at the horizon, but McCree is just as confusing an image to discover. He hasn't changed a bit, red serape, that stupid stetson, only the hunch of his shoulders is more pronounced now, the passage of time cruel to them all.

He's playing a guitar, Jack realizes, and his step falters.

"Want a smoke?" Jesse asks effortlessly amid his quiet whistling, never turning around to look at him, and Jack opens his mouth to deliver a response that never comes.

"One would think you stopped caring about your lung capacity a while ago," McCree rewards his silence with an amused huff, and as if he's testing foreign soil, Jack comes closer, until he's standing next to him, a bit awkwardly perhaps.

It's not exactly silence, but it puts Jack's mind at ease anyway - the melody is vaguely familiar, but he avoids trying to place it.

"Welcome back to the rock," McCree offers without any particular enthusiasm, "enjoying your stay so far?"

It occurs to Jack that maybe he isn't the only one who came here without a particular goal in mind - that perhaps a lot of people are doing this simply to try and find the reason they agreed to rejoin in the first place.

He sits down heavily, sun-scorched grass crumbling below him, and the sun blazes relentlessly, not a care in the world for them.

"That's not your guitar," he comments at last, and that does put a damper on Jesse's playing, a momentary discord in the melody. But he just laughs, sets the instrument flat across his legs, fishes out a cigar for himself.

"Yeah, what're you gonna do. Found it ditched in what I'm pretty sure used to be his old room. You know, the one carved into the rock, on the other side of the maintenance bay? Big window?"

Jack knows it, intimately even, and he's grateful that he doesn't need to confirm that out loud.

"Anyway, yeah, figured nobody else would really be playing it. Damn shame too, it's a fine piece of craftsmanship. Tuning it was a bitch, but hey."

Jack remembers waking up to the melody of it often, a smile, a  _ good morning, _ a  _ yeah, you slept through the good part. _ He remembers all of it, and isn’t quite sure what good it does him.

“What was that one song...?” he muses instead, “the one you used to play 24/7? From one of those cowboy flicks of yours.”

“That’s a pretty broad term there, Jack.”

“You know the one - you made Athena broadcast you playing it one afternoon, we couldn’t stop whistling it for weeks...”

“Oh, right, shit, yeah! Hold on...”

It feels like he hasn’t laughed in ages - the melody advances only slowly at first, McCree searching for the right chords, but then as he discovers them, it’s... They’re not memories, per se, pouring back, but rather a general feeling of the way it used to be - of a time when they were allowed to spend an afternoon chasing a fresh recruit around the base, thoroughly cursing him, and that stupid song always stuck in their heads... And Jack laughs.

And the next second, he sees a mask, white death, and a shotgun pointed in his face, the melody fading.  _ This is as it should have been. _

Next to him, Jesse strums his guitar, oblivious, and somewhere inside, a dozen people are planning to restore peace, as vague a concept as there ever was - and here is Jack, realizing that all these past years, from the moment his life quite literally went up in flames, to this moment right here, he’s always been utterly alone. Even here, even now.

Until, he thinks, he finds a way to tear that mask off and look underneath it. Until then, a part of him is always missing, hidden from sight. Until then, no redemption.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, well, taking A LOT of liberties with the prompts :D trying to keep these short and brief - in a way, these are more of like me jotting down my headcanon notes, for something bigger I have in mind :) hope you guys still like, let me know!


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